CHAPTER SIX

“Well, there's a small boat made of china;
it’s going nowhere on the mantlepiece …
“Well, do I lie like a loungeroom lizard,
or do I sing like a bird released?

“Everywhere you go

you always take the weather with you …”

– Neil and Tim Finn

Like most women, Vaerth Parihn had heard men beg.

She had to admit, though, that Quark was particularly good at it—even for a Ferengi.

He’d been at it for some time, now—attempting every conceivable approach he could imagine to persuade her into doing as he wished. He’d showered her in praise … promised to shower her in latinum … and even, at one point, promised to shower with her.

She’d smiled at the first offer … scoffed at the second … and sneered at the last.

Now he switched methodology, and went directly for the abject supplication.

He dropped to his knees, threw his arms around her calves and wheedled, “Shomira … please,” drawing the second word out interminably, the whine ending in a pathetic half sob.

Of course, he couldn’t resist copping the available feel; it was, for his race, almost instinctual. Sighing, Parihn tolerantly allowed his hands to roam until he reached mid-thigh, where she adroitly, firmly parried any further incursions. Still, she afforded him due credit: At least he managed not to slobber on her.

“The answer is no.”

“But if you just da–”

“No.”

“What about if you sa–?”

“No.”

Of course, Ferengi rarely open negotiations without holding some sort of leverage or trump, and Quark was no exception. At once, and at last, all pretense of pleading left his tone, and she recognized that the lengthy preliminaries—the ‘friendly’ discussion of old times, the toasts to each other’s business acumen, the companionable pawing (an aspect of the deal respected by both their peoples)—were complete.

He withdrew his hands, rested his chin on her knee, and said, “You know you owe me—a lot.”

At that, she smiled, back in more recognizable territory, and employed a tactic familiar to both Ferengi and Orions—one that rarely failed.

“Do you have that in writing?”

For a moment, Quark looked dismayed … but only for a moment. He stood, stepped back and for a long moment, held her gaze with his own.

Despite adopting an expression she’d thought conveyed both impassivity and disdain, Parihn knew the moment she’d lost ground. She saw him read something in her face—something she’d hoped to conceal, or perhaps hadn’t even known was there—and then flash a snaggle-toothed smirk at what he’d seen.

Damn. I’m way out of practice.

His emotional swagger partly restored, he refilled her glass; suddenly he was feeling magnanimous again.

That, she knew, could only mean trouble.

“Ah,” he countered, “but you’re Starfleet, now, Shomira ... Parihn. And Starfleet officers believe in the spirit of the agreement, not its letter.” His tone indicated how naïve and stupid he thought such a perspective was; but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t employ his opponent’s ethical vulnerabilities against her.

She tried the only ploy that immediately presented itself.

“If I owe you that much, Quark,” she growled, “why bother even trying to get even?”

He easily parried such a feeble play.

“Because unlike most Orions, you have a conscience, little girl. Trust me; I know what a disadvantage that can be. The fact is, you’re in my debt…” The smile turned predatory. “…and your account has just come due.”

She downed the porter in a single pull. It seemed to help, a bit.

“You,” she declared, standing, “are a exploitative little hobgoblin, you know that?”

Quark stood in turn, and grinned again.

“Then you’ll do it?”

Her thoughts already turning to consequence and damage control, Parihn snatched up the carafe of blue porter and took another swig—which braced enough to get her through the next three words.

“I’ll do it.”

***

Despite his concerted attempt not to prejudge the man, it had taken Luciano Mantovanni precisely fifteen seconds to formulate an opinion of Vedek Yahael Oyhmitt.

Then, again, nothing in the ensuing fifteen minutes did anything to dispel it.

Kira stood—stiffly and reluctantly, it seemed—and grimaced a bit as Yahael greeted her in the traditional manner. The vedek, fortunately, chose to interpret that as discomfort with the physical aspect of the examination. After all, not many people liked to be grabbed by their ear.

Some instinct told Mantovanni that Kira’s dislike ran quite a bit deeper, and his own estimation of her rose accordingly.

“Your pagh is strong, child,” Yahael intoned. “You are a stalwart servant of the Prophets.”

DS9’s commander didn’t reply. Instead, she affixed as grateful a smile to her face as she could … and, once again, convinced absolutely no one of her sincerity.

As a liar, you make a great revolutionary, Colonel.

That, too, made him like her more.

“What brings you here, Vedek?” Kira asked. Despite knowing exactly why, she nevertheless adhered to the game’s rules.

So did Yahael.

“I had wished to meet with you and discuss certain issues vital to Bajor’s future. How … fortuitous … that I would arrive even as you were speaking with the Federation’s representative.”

Yahael turned to Mantovanni, wearing a smile pulled from the same bag Kira had taken hers.

If he reaches for my ear, I’ll break his arm ... and won’t that do wonders for relations?

Obviously the vedek possessed fairly good instincts himself; the potentially offending hand remained at his side.

Either that, or he doesn’t want to touch me.

The feeling is very mutual.

Rather than reseating himself, he turned to Kira.

“Until tomorrow, then, Colonel.”

At that, Yahael started, but recovered nicely.

“Wha–? Captain, you don’t have to leave. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your meeting.”

Any more than you already have.

“If you have something of which you wish to inform the Federation, Vedek, please discuss it with Colonel Kira. I have no doubt she can convey it at our next meeting. She is, after all, the designated representative … and we must observe the proprieties.”

He nodded to each in turn.

“If you’ll excuse me …”

“Oh, by all means, withdraw, Captain,” drawled Yahael. “I shouldn’t be surprised: After all, you’re with Starfleet–

“–and withdrawals are what you do best.”

If Mantovanni had already been relatively sure that Kira hadn’t been in on this impromptu visit, now he was even more certain: Her jaw literally dropped at Yahael’s insinuation.

“Very pithy, Vedek … but there are no reporters, here,” he replied. “Save the sound bites for someone who’s impressed … and for when someone’s actually listening to you.”

Yahael’s smile soured a bit, but sweetened almost instantly.

“Oh, you’ll listen, Captain—eventually. You’ll have no choice. You and your Federation will hear the Voice of the Prophets through your stoppered ears and your starship walls. A new era of justice is impending, and all of Bajor’s enemies will receive their due.”

It was all Mantovanni could do not to roll his eyes.

“Why is it that whenever certain people talk about ‘justice,’ Vedek, I hear the word ‘revenge’ in the afterecho?”

“‘When the just take their vengeance,’” said Yahael, “‘it is itself justice.’”

Mantovanni’s brow furrowed. That had sounded like a quote, but …

Kira came to his rescue.

“Vedek Moran wrote that during the Occupation, Captain—after the Cardassians had blinded him … and cut off his hands.”

“They killed him eventually, Captain,” added Yahael. “But before they could silence him, he held the writing stylus in his mouth and wrote some of his most powerful treatises.”

Sounds to me like his hate consumed him … and as if it’s taken a few big bites out of you, as well.

Mantovanni had initially determined not to employ any of the Scripture he himself revered, lest the two men fall to pointless—as opposed to pointed—bickering. Said resolve, though, had already begun to flag in the face of Yahael’s pedantic oratory.

It’s either bend the rule … or break his neck.

After a brief and closely-contested internal debate, he settled on the former.

“‘The spear in your enemy’s heart is the spear in your own. You are he.’”

Yahael regarded him with an expression that told Mantovanni the man had never learned the difference between ‘paternal’ and ‘patronizing’—another variant of the same sanctimonious smirk he’d been wearing for all of the discussion.

And, I’d wager, most of his life.

“A noble sentiment,” the Bajoran conceded. “No doubt a small draught of the Prophets’ wisdom—properly diluted for human consumption, of course… and not at all binding on those more spiritually evolved.” The smirk assumed a touch of sneer. “We Bajorans had already been following the true Prophets for hundreds of centuries when some of your ancestors still thought thunder came from a chariot drawn across the sky by goats.”

As opposed to congregations led by jackasses? That’s Surak, you ignoramus, not Sirach.

Instead of voicing that, though, Mantovanni replied, “Point taken.

“Since you clearly have no taste for ‘watered down Scripture,’ Vedek, perhaps this is something you’ll find more to your liking.”

Yahael’s smile lasted exactly two seconds longer—the amount of time it took him to recognize the passage.

“‘Leave off revenge,’” Mantovanni quoted, “‘lest it destroy you, as well. Let payment remain in the province, and the palm, of the Prophets, for they see beyond the bounds of your hatred, and will deliver justice to those who wait faithfully for it.’

“From the writings of Vedek Thar—The Scroll of Mercy, if I’m not mistaken. I always found it interesting that it’s one of the most revered, yet least read, of all Bajoran scriptures.

“Perhaps it contains a few too many inconvenient truths.”

Yahael laughed, but it was not the sound of one conceding an exchange to a worthy opponent.

“You are hardly one to lecture about either truth or mercy, Captain. What version of ‘compassion’ did the Cardassians and Jem’Hadar receive at your blood-steeped hands? If you don’t practice what you preach, human, you’re a hypocrite as well as a murderer.”

“And if you can’t differentiate between a just war and one motivated by a desire for unnecessary retribution, Vedek, you’re…” He desperately wanted to add “… a hate-mongering imbecile,” but instead finished with, “…unworthy of the title.”

Yahael’s temper had begun to fray.

“My title,” he snarled, “is granted me by the Prophets Themselves, infidel. It is not for you or your Federation to decide what is or is not necessary. If we Bajorans ourselves are the instruments of the Prophets, then we shall be the ones who will deliver justice, in Their Holy Name.”

Mantovanni arched a brow. He noted that, this time, Kira seemed to appreciate it.

He then observed, “And since the Emissary is conveniently gone, now, and the Prophets don’t seem very talkative of late, you and your reactionary gaggle will make certain to provide an interpretation of prophecy that allows you to ‘deliver justice’ as you see it. There’s a real surprise.”

Yahael reddened.

“There is a special place of punishment prepared for you and yours.”

Without missing a beat, Mantovanni replied, “No doubt it’s a seat next to you, Vedek. I can’t imagine worse torture than listening to your asininity for eternity.”

“You dare t–!”

For the most part, Kira had remained on the sidelines through the discussion. Now, at last, she intervened.

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” she declared, especial emphasis on the final word demonstrating her conviction that neither deserved the name—at least in that moment.

“This meeting is adjourned.”

***

“I’ll do it.”

Nog had returned to Quark’s directly from Ops, practically at a run. If he’d thought of it—and thought he could’ve gotten away with it—he would have employed a site-to-site transport.

Now, standing outside his uncle’s office, attempting to extrapolate the entire conversation from having eavesdropped on its tail end, he wished he’d done it anyway.

What will she do?

What is he going to make her do?

Well, one way or another, he was going to find out.

He reached for the chime…

…and the door slid open to reveal a very angry-looking, impossibly lovely Vaerth Parihn.

He gaped.

He gurgled.

He grinned a gap-toothed grin, felt his heart lurch … and knew he’d never forget the first words she’d spoken to him.

“You make a terrible door, Lieutenant.”

He started.

“Oh. Oh! Uh … s–sorry …” He stepped aside, and she slipped into the hallway.

As Parihn passed him, her expression softened into a gentle, subtle smile and she laid a conciliatory hand on his arm.

At her touch, his knees went all wobbly, even as another part of him … didn’t.

If she noticed either reaction, the Orion gave no indication of it, and continued past him.

The wave of wonderful disorientation abated; Nog shook his head, then remembered both where he was…

…and why he was there.

Angrier than he’d been in a long time, Nog stomped into Quark’s office.

Angrier than she’d been in a long time, Parihn stomped out of Quark’s office and back into the still practically deserted bar. For a moment, she seriously considered throwing both a tantrum, and anything that wasn’t bolted down; that, at least, would get her tossed into the station brig for a few days … but would only delay the inevitable by that amount of time.

Instead, resigned if not reconciled to the situation, she began to prowl around the room and make her own plans.

***

“What did you say? You’re going to what?”

Mantovanni decided, in that very instant, that 26-hour days meant just one thing for him: Two more hours of aggravation.

He regretted his harshness, but not, at that point, quite enough to expend the effort required for a retraction—even though Parihn seemed more than a little taken aback at the response to her news.

She repeated her announcement, a little more hesitantly.

“I said, ‘I’m going to dance here’—a week from now.”

“Here” was, of course, Quark’s. Mantovanni didn’t much appreciate the place, and he liked its owner even less. But while he’d never in his life taken a drink because he needed one, at that point, he’d definitely wanted one. More, it had seemed an excellent idea after his meeting with Colonel Kira…

…and collision with Vedek Yahael.

So here he’d come. He hadn’t yet had the drink; but he’d sure as Hell gotten more than he wanted to swallow.

“I’ll assume by ‘dance,’” he said, “that you don’t mean either a quick jitterbug with another customer or a spontaneous wiggle on the bar.”

Even more tentative now, Parihn replied, “No … I–I’m doing a show.”

He managed to suppress most of a sigh that would have otherwise rattled the bottles stacked behind the bar.

“Oh, Mother of God,” he muttered, “that’s just what I need.”

He’d forgotten that Orion hearing is a match for Vulcan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, hands on her hips—her bare hips. It only now registered with him that she’d changed attire again since he’d last seen her. The flimsy little two piece looked to have been woven primarily with some sort of crimson silk—no doubt non-replicable, outlandishly expensive, Tholian crimson silk, unless Parihn’s tastes had devolved in the last few hours—and seemed cunningly designed to imply that far more flesh would soon be visible.

She looked like the sexiest Christmas decoration he’d ever seen … but this was neither the time nor the season.

In response, his tone grew arid enough to practically have the few onlookers reaching for their drinks.

“Let’s just say I interpret that particular kind of dancing as advertising a product you no longer intend to sell—unless of course you’re considering a lateral, or should I say horizontal, career move.”

Morn cringed, and prudently averted his eyes.

Parihn flushed green, but stood her ground.

“Here’s a little advice for you, Captain Paragon: I suggest you slow down and take a few deep breaths. After all, the air must be pretty damned thin up there on the moral high ground!”

He never raised his voice, but her flash of temper had clearly triggered his own. Rather than respond in kind, however, he upped the ante.

"Very well, Lieutenant Free Spirit. Remember this, though, while you’re doing whatever…” In his barely-controlled anger, he almost heedlessly added “and whomever,” but restrained himself at the last instant. “…it is you’ll be doing: Just because you're not currently in the uniform doesn't mean you can't disgrace it. Do that, and whatever costume you're wearing, or not wearing, during your little sex show will be your new uniform ... because you'll be a civilian again faster than you can say, 'conduct unbecoming an officer.'

“Are we clear?"

Parihn locked glares with him for a long moment, jaw set, eyes flashing green fire. Then, in response, she relaxed and gave him a fetching, lackadaisical shrug; but it wasn’t in the least a gesture of uncertainty: At that subtle behest, the wispy blouse she’d been wearing slipped off to reveal an even wispier little bandeau—one transparent enough to make imagination significantly less necessary than it had been just seconds before.

And this was a woman who definitely lived up to everyone’s imagination.

She smiled lazily, might or might not have blown him a whispery kiss, and replied, “Crystal clear, sir.”

Her point—or, rather, points—now clarified, Parihn moseyed past him into the back room, effortlessly making even that look like she was headed straight for trouble. Mantovanni, with an effort, managed not to follow her with his eyes.

Morn and the other males present didn’t even try to resist; all turned in synchronous rotation, their vision affixed to a part of her that itself revolved quite precisely … and very nicely.

He couldn’t blame them a bit.

And now for that drin–

“Ops to Captain Mantovanni.”

Or not.

He tapped his offending comm badge.

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

“I think you’d better get back up here. There’s been an … incident…

“…and both Emissary and Liberty were involved.”

Mantovanni digested that, then replied with a carefully neutral, “I’ll be two minutes.”

On his way across the almost-deserted Promenade, he happened to glance at a wall chronometer.

Hmm … 2558 hours. And here I thought tomorrow would have to be better.

He chuckled harshly.

That’s what I get for thinking.

CHAPTER FIVE INTERLUDE FOUR